


A Study in Smuggling

by Libby H Mehoy (lulugirl617)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I promise this will have redeeming qualities, M/M, Plot will come but first smut, Smut, Spy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-30 09:30:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5158739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lulugirl617/pseuds/Libby%20H%20Mehoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is serving time with MI-6 instead of jail, thanks to Mycroft. He is assigned a new case with a very intriguing target. Smut ensues, along with eventual plot and then more smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock gets a new assignment.
> 
> Not beta-ed or brit-picked, so please let me know if you see anything.

Sherlock lay with his head crammed awkwardly against the arm of the couch and his knees bent so he could fit his considerably long form into the tired piece of furniture. The cramped position had begun to really hurt his neck around the two hour mark, but he was too busy thinking to pay any attention to external stimuli. It was only when a man burst through his front door that he bothered to open an eye.  


“I’ve been calling you for the last hour, I almost brought a strike team,” Lestrade was red in the face from running and his words were gasped out through ragged breaths.  


“Didn’t notice,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes. “Been busy. Shut the door, if you please. Don’t want just anyone wandering in.”  


“You have a mission,” Lestrade replied, not bothering to close the door. He knew what would happen next.  


“Why didn’t you say so?” Sherlock sprung up from his prone position and began pouring over the file Lestrade had dropped on the end table. Lestrade let out a long-suffering sigh.  


“Be at headquarters in half an hour, you’ll be briefed. And answer your damn phone, I thought you were compromised.”  
Sherlock waved him off and continued reading over the files that detailed the private and professional life of his target, John Watson.  
\---  


Sherlock had been on loan to MI-6 for the last two years. Well, on loan was a kind way of putting it. He had been caught stealing (returning) a precious artifact from the Museum of London. He had needed it for an experiment, but that was apparently meaningless. Mycroft, being annoyingly competent, had arranged for Sherlock to serve his time in a more productive way than prison. With only a few months left at his commanding officer’s beck and call, Sherlock was counting the seconds until his freedom.  


He spent the next fifteen minutes reading and rereading the case file on John Watson. Doctor, captain, and invalidated out of the military after wounded being in action. Suspected of smuggling arms to the terrorists he had been fighting, but there was no proof. With all his contacts in the region, it wasn’t surprising he was able to get away with it. No close relatives nearby, parents both dead and sister living up north. Sherlock committed it all to a small room in his mind palace he cleaned regularly, more of a closet for the details of his cases.  


The man seemed practically ordinary in his army photographs, but the way he held himself and the look in his eye sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. Interesting. He catalogued his reaction for further investigation.  


With fifteen minutes to go, Sherlock stood, grimacing at the pain in his neck. Probably shouldn’t lie like that, but it wasn’t exactly going to stop him. He took the stairs two at a time and was out on the street in seconds, hailing a cab and directing the driver to Vauxhall Cross. He reported (only a few seconds late at most) to the office of Gregory Lestrade.  


“Glad to see you decided to grace us peasants with an audience,” Lestrade muttered, not looking up from the paperwork on his desk. Sherlock gave an affronted sniff. Clearly Lestrade was still bitter about the not-answering-your-mobile thing.  


“Just get on with it,” Sherlock said in a clipped tone. “I’d rather like to get back to what I was doing before I was interrupted.”  


“You mean lying on a couch?” Lestrade finally looked up, “This is a matter of international proportions and if it wasn’t for- well, I’m not exactly thrilled about your assignment either, to be quite frank.”  


“Oh, that’s interesting,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes.  


“Too many variables, I don’t like it,” Lestrade replied, shaking his head.  


“No, no I know about your habitual underestimation of my abilities,” Sherlock shot out. “I mean the thing that caused me to be assigned. It could be my memory, but I’m sure you have senior agents who can handle the mind-numbing task of memorization. Not skills then, so something out of your control. It isn’t- oh it is! This might be more entertaining than I thought.”  


“I hate it when you do that,” Lestrade punctuated his words by slamming his desk drawer. “It’s your looks, Sherlock. And all that is going to do is feed that bloody ego of your, but there you go. The good doctor is into blokes, and judging by his, shall we say preferences, while he was in the military, you are just his type.”  


“I suppose that means I have to flirt,” Sherlock sounded supremely bored.  


“You know how, I’ve seen you, and it's a fucking menace,” Lestrade said pointedly. “You do have to look presentable. And since you have to get up to his hotel room and we aren’t planning on forcing you to sleep with the man, there's a sedative the brains in the lab cooked up. Should knock him out for a few hours.”  


Sherlock felt a twinge of disappointment in his stomach and frowned. That wasn’t supposed to happen. But a night flirting with Captain John Watson, Sherlock swallowed. It would might even be fun.  


“Get down to Molly in prep, she’ll clean you up and give you the briefing,” Lestrade said, waving his hand dismissively. “And don’t cause an international incident. Watson doesn’t have a history of overreacting, but I’d rather you not poke the sleeping bear, yeah? I’ll be on coms in your ear the entire time, as soon as I fill out all the requests. Don’t get yourself killed.”  


Sherlock grumbled assent and left Lestrade to his paperwork. He took the elevator to the prep lab. It was his least favorite part of the entire thing, he hated having people tell him what to wear and how to act. When he saw the clothing laid out for the evening, however, he was favorably surprised. A slimming jacket, tailored pants, and a deep purple shirt. Maybe it wouldn’t be too horrid.  


“Just pop into these,” Molly had said, pressing the clothing on Sherlock and turning back the the table covered in technology.  


He had headed into the dressing room, and now that the clothes were on, he felt rather pleased. The shirt was obscenely tight, but he was the honeypot for the evening, so he supposed it was appropriate. He stepped back out into the main room and Molly immediately blushed, which was a fairly stable indicator. He hoped it had the same effect on the Captain. Sherlock shook himself for the though. This wasn’t a date, the man was suspected in aiding terrorists for Christ’s sake.  


“Yes, those will do,” Molly stammered when she was able to once again meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Here’s your communications device for the evening. Don’t take it off for any reason. And the meditative.” She handed him a pen. “Just unscrew the top nib and there you have it.”  


“And how am I supposed to distract him while preparing to sedate him?” Sherlock asked coolly, slipping the pen into his inner pocket. Molly’s blush deepened.  


“The briefing said to use your natural talents, so, um,” The response seemed to physically pain her.  


“Yes, alright,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. These people were beyond crude. “And my mission?”  


“He’s got a briefcase in his hotelroom,” Molly said, clearly relieved they had changed topics. “We believe it to contain information about their next shipment, when it's scheduled, what it contains, the usual. Get into his hotel room, knock him out, and memorize what's in the briefcase. It’ll be passcode protected, but I’m sure you can figure a way around that.”  


“Mm,” was Sherlock’s only reply. He was already running through likely passwords in his head. “And how am I supposed to get into the hotel room? Natural talents?”  


“That's the whole of it,” Molly said, not meeting his eye. “The past three nights he has spent an hour from 9 to 10 at the bar in his hotel. We will plant you there.”  


“Wonderful,” Sherlock said, adjusting his attire in the floor-length mirror that hung on the wall. “I’m sure it’ll make an entertaining story for my older brother.”  


“Mr. Holmes,” A man entered through the lab’s only door. He’d never seen the man before, but that was usual. MI-6 liked to switch up the drivers. “I’ll be your transport for the evening.”  


“A pleasure, as always, Miss. Hooper,” Sherlock said sanctimoniously.  
\--  


The bar at the hotel was obvious in its purpose. High backed couches created the illusion of small rooms, and Sherlock spotted three escorts within the first five minutes.  


“You think a weapons smuggler would have stayed at a nicer place,” Sherlock muttered, knowing full well that Lestrade could hear him.  
He sat invitingly at the bar, positioned so he had a good view of the elevators. Every time a ding announced a new guest, he felt his heart jump. Which was ridiculous. This was a mission.  


And then Captain John Watson arrived. And Sherlock had to remind himself it was only a mission five times after the man stepped out of the elevator. It was another seventeen reminders after Captain John Watson made eye contact and gave a half smile. Sherlock felt very warm as he watched the man cross the lobby and slide into the seat next to him.  


“Hello then,” John said, a smile still playing on his lips. “You’re new. I’d offer to buy you a drink but I see you already have one.”  


“How don’t you know I’m not meeting anyone?” Sherlock asked, looking up from under his lashes in a way he knew made him look positively sinful.  


“If you are, you should call and cancel,” John said, “it's rude to stand people up.”  


“And where will I be going?” Sherlock dropped his voice an octave, pointed looking John up and down before meeting the man’s eyes. Sherlock felt the same shiver he had earlier in the day. Absolutely unacceptable.  


“To my suite, if you like,” John said in a matter-of-fact tone. “If not, we can sit down here for a while, drink some disgustingly overpriced booze, and I’ll give you my number. Then, in a few days you’ll call, and we’ll repeat the process all over again. Either way, I’ll be seeing quite a lot of you.” John’s eyes lingered on Sherlock’s torso as he removed a card from his jacket and offered it across the few feet that separated them.  


“That really won’t be necessary,” Sherlock leaned in, closing the distance between them as he pushed John’s hand away. He leaned in so he could whisper in John’s ear. “I’d much rather we get to the point, yes?”  


“Easy,” Lestrade sparked to life in his ear. “Don’t want to seem too eager.”  


Sherlock ignored him. John’s hand slide around his waist as they walked to the elevators, and Sherlock was surprised with his natural it felt. As soon as the doors closed, John pushed Sherlock against the wall, leaning in close. Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat and struggled to stay calm and unmoving. He felt the urge to lean in, press his body against John’s, but no, that was feeling for the wrong reasons.  


“I can tell you want me,” John whispered in his ear. “I’m a doctor, you know. I know the physical signs of arousal.”  


“Then tell me, doctor,” Sherlock said, his voice dripping with want, “Deduce me.”  


“Dilated pupils,” John stared into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock noted the deep blue of John’s eyes were mostly consumed with black as well.  


“Racing heart,” John brushed his lips against the pulse point in Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock let out a small moan despite his best efforts. He didn’t want Lestrade hearing this.  


“And, of course,” John’s hand, which had been safely on Sherlock’s side, slowly traveled downwards. Sherlock gave up all vestiges of self control and moaned.  


“Do I need to put a sock on the door?” Lestrade hissed in his ear. “This is a mission, not a hook up.” Sherlock didn’t entirely understand why it couldn’t be both.  


“What are you going to do about it?” Sherlock asked, attempting to sound intimidating. Instead, it came out as a breathy, desperate plea.  


John made a noise that could only be classified as a growl and then he was there, pushing even farther into Sherlock’s space, and they were kissing. Sherlock pressed into John, their bodies fitting together from chest to thigh. The kiss started fast and sloppy, but soon John slowed down, pulled away, and Sherlock felt the loss.  


“Not quite that fast, gorgeous,” John quipped. “I want to take my time with you.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically smut

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice in his ear brought back some sliver of sanity. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, just get into his room, drug him, and get out of there. He is dangerous.”

Sherlock mentally shook himself, trying to bring back images from John Watson’s case file. Bad man. Dangerous man. It did nothing to suppress the burning heat in the pit of his stomach. The elevator reached its final destination and the doors slid open.

“Where’s your room?” Sherlock purred, running his hand along the waist of John’s pants. John shivered and Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth twitch up in a smile.

“Just down the hall,” John said, leading Sherlock behind him. “God, I don’t even know your name. I swear this is out of character you’re just so bloody gorgeous-”

Sherlock kissed him, sliding his hands around the other man’s face to cup his jaw. John moaned and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss.

“Sherlock,” Sherlock finally gasped, pulling away. “My name is Sherlock.”

“John Watson,” John returned. “This is my room.”

Sherlock felt like drumming his fingers in impatience as John fumbled for the room key before finally, finally, letting them in. Sherlock’s gaze swept the room. Modest, surprisingly so. The only briefcase was a brown leather number on the small desk, old and worn with use. A slight frown creased his brow as he noticed the handle of the briefcase. There was no lock.

“Give me a moment,” Sherlock said, whispering into John’s ear. “I’ll be right back.” 

He slipped into the bathroom and lock the door, running the water the ensure John couldn’t hear what was going on. Sherlock pulled out the com from his ear and the pen from his pocket. This could get him years more on his sentence, or worse, actual prison. But no, it was the right thing to do. He picked up the com.

“You’ve got it wrong,” he whispered directly into the unit. “He’s not an arms smuggler. I’m not sure what he is yet, but it’s not that. Far too cheap, far too lax. I’m going to turn off my com, but I’ll leave it active in the room once I’m gone. You’ll hear exactly how innocent John Watson is.”

“Sherlock, don’t you dare,” Lestrade knew he couldn’t hear him, but he had to try. Then the com went dark. 

Sherlock picked up the pen from the counter, gripping it so tightly he could feel it digging into the palm of his hand. He tucked it back into the inside pocket of his jacket. There would be no need for that tonight.

Outside the bathroom door, John Watson paced. As soon as he heard the water stop and the door handle click, he froze, pivoting on his heel and clenching his hands into fists. He couldn’t stop his mouth from opening slightly when he caught sight of Sherlock once again.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” John said, all the bravado lost from his voice. Sherlock closed his eyes, as if soaking up the compliment. When they snapped open again, they had a hint of something else, a hunger that had only been a glimmer before.

Sherlock crossed to John in three long strides and stood staring expectantly down at the shorter man. John tried to restrain himself, he really did, but it had been ages since he had had a go and the man before was a feast. In one swift move he snaked his hand behind Sherlock’s head, entwining his fingers in the curls, and pulled Sherlock’s mouth down to meet his own. Sherlock groaned and melted against him, tugging insistently at John’s button-down shirt.

And then it was a tangle of limbs and clothes. Sherlock’s quick fingers worked at John’s buttons, only stopped for a moment when John slid his suit jacket off Sherlock’s shoulders. And Sherlock was ripping at the buttons on his shirt, it didn’t matter, wasn’t really his anyways, and he heard John laugh and tell him to slow down, he wasn’t going anywhere.

When they finally pressed chest to chest, Sherlock shuddered at the contact. John dug his fingers into the other man’s skinny hips, grinding into him and smiling into their kiss as Sherlock whimpered.

“Please,” Sherlock whispered in a hoarse voice. “Can you- would you-”

“Anything love, tell me,” John said, bearing down on Sherlock’s hips again. He just couldn’t help himself. The noises that man makes.

“Fuck me,” John could barely hear him, but it sent jolts of electricity through his entire body

“God, yes,” John growled. “You act like it’d be a bloody chore. Come here.”

John helped Sherlock onto his back, resting his hands on the waist of his pants until Sherlock squirmed, bucking his hips up off the bed. John chuckled and slide the final layer of clothing off, tossing it on the floor before sitting back on his heels and staring at the naked man before him.

“You’re incredible,” John said. Sherlock blushed and his hips bucked imperceptibly.

“So you’ve said,” he replied. “Do I have to do everything myself or are you going to fuck me?”

John sprang forward, capturing Sherlock’s mouth with his own and rubbing his still-clothed erection against Sherlock’s. Sherlock fisted his hands in the bed sheet, the sensations were overloading his already buzzing brain.

“You’re lucky I have supplies,” John said, reaching over Sherlock into the top drawer of the nightstand. 

“You’re a single man in a hotel room of course you have supplies,” Sherlock shot back, but the words were lacking his usual bite. Being naked, spread eagled under a stranger will do that.

“Smart mouth,” John said, leaning down to kiss it again. “Better hope I don’t decide to stretch this out. You don’t look like you could take it much longer.”

And then the weight of John was gone and Sherlock moaned in protest. 

“I won’t be cruel,” John said with humor in his voice. “Just want to get as naked as you, love.”

And John was back, kneeling between Sherlock’s spread thighs. Sherlock heard a packet of lube being torn open, then felt a solid hand run up his thigh.

“Alright?” John asked, one finger poised above Sherlock’s hole. 

“Get on with it,” Sherlock practically yelled, trying to stretch down onto John’s finger.

John pushed into Sherlock. Sherlock arched off the bed, crying out. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, John worked his finger all the way in. Sherlock was breathing heavily now, holding onto the sheets to stop himself from touching his leaking cock.

“Jesus you’re tight,” John muttered. “You sure this is ok?”

The only form of communication Sherlock could offer was a moan and a bearing down on John’s finger. He figured that was good enough. John added a second finger, then a third, and Sherlock was a shaking mess. 

“Just do it already,” he moaned, all reservation lost. John grinned. This time, he would actually comply.

Sherlock heard rather than saw the final preparations being made. He was afraid if he opened his eyes at this point it would all be too much and he’d come on the spot. He felt John line up and slowly, slowly begin to push in. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. He couldn’t help it. John was above him, solid and glowing and real, and making this face Sherlock had never seen before. 

“Oh, God, Sherlock,” John sounded like he was sobbing. “I’m not going to last long. Go on, love, touch yourself. I want to see you.”

Sherlock wrapped his hand around his oversensitive cock and whimpered. John began moving carefully, so carefully Sherlock thought he’d go mad. Sherlock began lifting his hips, meeting John halfway and matching their rhythm with his hand. 

“John,” Sherlock moaned in half syllables. “John, I’m- I’m going to-”

“Yes that’s it,” John said, snapping his hips in and out of Sherlock. “Come for me. Let me see you.”

Sherlock came, shouting and spilling over his fist. Half a stroke later, John joined him. They lay pressed together, riding out the last waves of their orgasm, pressed from chest to thigh. It was ten minutes before Sherlock realized how uncomfortably sticky he was becoming. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, pressing an uncoordinated kiss to John’s temple. He walked to the bathroom to get a towel, and pulled out the com from where he had stashed it. Quietly, he turned it back on, and tucked it on the underside of the desk as he crossed back to the bed.

“You’re even more fucking beautiful now,” John muttered as Sherlock offered him the towel. “How is that even possible? And why the fuck are you interesting in a guy like me?”

“You’re vulgar after sex,” Sherlock murmured, flopping back down on the bed and curling up into John.

“Still wanna know,” John replied, sleep slurring his words. Sherlock smiled as he watched John drift off, listening to his breathing even out and the lines on his forehead smooth. 

Once he was sure John was asleep, he rolled off the bed and shuffled around the floor until he found his clothes. Once he was dressed, Sherlock sat at the desk, grimacing at the click the latch of the briefcase made. There was only one folder inside, with only a few sheets of paper. It only took him three minutes to memorize the lot. 

Once he had replaced the briefcase and its contents, Sherlock found a pad of paper and pen, scribbled down his number and a note, and walked forlornly to the door. It was not the exit he wanted, but if there was any chance of retaining his deal, he needed to come out of this with some sort of useful information. 

\--

When the door shut, John Watson sat up. He had been awake for the last fifteen minutes. Years in the military had trained his brain to react to any sound while he was sleeping, no matter how small. He reached for the note on the side table.

Sherlock Holmes  
02075551013  
Sorry for running out, it’s a work thing.  
Call at once when convenient.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr at johnlockfancreations.tumblr.com. I take requests, so go ahead and message me if you want anything special! You can also contact me at johnlockfancreations@gmail.com
> 
> Comments are wonderful


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